Rite of Passage
by ShadeShifter
Summary: Methos is kidnapped as a sacrifice to someone who shouldn't exist. KronosMethos. Highlander, Sentinel, Angel crossover. Sentinel School series.


Thanks as always to Moonbeam, who looked this over for me.

It shouldn't be necessary to read the rest of the series to understand this fic.

**Rite of Passage:**

Methos let the rough hands guide him through the ever-dark hallways. The air was dank and heavy with humidity. Ropes twined around his wrists in intricate knots. Cord magic. A binding.

A hood covered his head, completely blocking out any light. There were times, when hands weren't pushing and prodding him, that he thought he might have been buried alive.

Perhaps more terrible than the loss of his sight was the loss of his speech, muted as it was by the gag, tightly tied and cutting into skin. At fourteen he'd been named Hekau. Scribe, priest, magician. Guide. He knew the true nature of things and named them such. There was power in names, more so in True names.

His stomach was clenched in a hunger beyond that which his Immortality could ignore. It had been days since he'd last had anything to eat or drink. Five or six he would guess. He knew hunger and starvation well, but somehow each time was as terrible as the last.

He tripped on uneven floor and wasn't given time enough to recover as he was pushed against a cold metal wall. In moments he felt a shift and then movement. An elevator. Anticipation and dread filled him. They rose steadily.

"Don't worry," one of the men said with mocking laughter, "it's almost over."

He had not had contact with anyone since his kidnapping, but he knew, in a way that surpassed deductive reasoning, that 'it' included his death in some way, and not just temporarily.

The elevator stopped and Methos was pulled roughly and marched the length of a large room. He dropped to his knees when rough hands pushed him down. He remembered temples and back alleys. His knees sank into plush carpet.

"We've brought you a gift, from the Senior Partners," one of his captors said. It wasn't directed at him.

Bribe, Methos corrected. Sacrifice.

Silence was the only response. The hood was pulled off his head and the gag removed and Methos blinked, raising weary eyes. He stared at a sight that was both wondrous and terrible. He named it and made it real.

"Kronos."

Sharp, crazed eyes snapped to his. They were blue like icebergs and desolate skies. Methos didn't know what to do with the relief that crashed through him.

A flurry of movement and he was slammed up against the wall. Pain sparked through his head, bursting white across his vision. This was familiar. Pain, desire, Kronos. Always Kronos. He smelt of leather, sweat, desert sands and sulphur. Methos leaned into him without realising. Traitor, Methos despaired, though he didn't know to which of them he referred.

A nose was pressed into the crook of his neck and Methos thought of Caspian, teeth and jugulars. One hand held him up by the throat, the other dug painfully into his hair. Methos found his mouth plundered until he was light headed from lack of oxygen. A claiming by lips, teeth and tongue.

There was a promise in Kronos' eyes when he pulled away. Dread and visceral enjoyment mixed curiously to create anticipation that Methos hadn't felt in years. Liar, he accused himself. Murderer and hypocrite. Horseman.

He stumbled forward a step when Kronos spun away from him towards his captors. The violence that ensued was beautiful in its grace and efficiency. Barbarian, he wanted to think. Instead, he thought artist.

Finally Kronos returned to him, touching him to make sure he was there, safe and alive. Blood smeared over his skin and rumpled shirt. It was a gift, a promise of protection and devotion. It felt like coming home.

Kronos lightly gripped the back of Methos' neck, drawing him closer. He caressed Methos' cheek with his thumb, before he twisted with brutal, practiced efficiency.

---

Methos revived with a gasp. He twisted, trying to find a position that would allow him to catch his breath, but his hands were still bound. Gentle hands helped him sit and ran through his hair, calming him. They were not where they had been. He didn't recognise this place.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

Blue eyes watched him with such need that Methos only wanted to ease it away.

"Alive."

Kronos stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head minutely and walking away. Methos felt cold with him gone.

---

Time passed. Methos wasn't sure how much. Kronos knelt before him, fingers trailing over his forehead, his nose, lips, jaw, memorising him. Finally they stilled, cupping his face.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

"Immortal."

Though Kronos' expression did not change significantly he seemed disappointed. He shook his head once more and left.

---

Methos woke abruptly, dream already fading, to find Kronos standing in the doorway watching him. It took a moment for him to focus. Kronos did not enter.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

"Horseman."

Kronos looked at him despondently and turned away.

---

Methos was tired and weak. He opened his eyes only when he felt a light touch on his cheek. Kronos lay down beside him on the ground, hand reaching out to envelop Methos'. It grounded him.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

"Brother."

Kronos rose and walked away. Methos sighed. When Kronos returned moments later he was surprised, even more so when Kronos cupped his head and brought a cup to his lips. Water dribbled into his mouth and Methos drank all he could. Kronos eased him down gently once more and left.

---

Methos opened his eyes when he felt lips pressed lightly to his own. Kronos watched him intently, a quirk to his lips that might have been a smile.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

"Lover."

Kronos reached over and began to unravel the knots that bound his wrists. He then rubbed at Methos' hands, working feeling back into them. He was still there when Methos drifted into something approaching sleep.

---

A hand ran through his hair. He felt warm and content. It wasn't something he was used to. He looked up at Kronos.

"What am I?" Kronos asked.

"Sau."

Protector, enforcer, mate, soul. Sentinel.

Kronos nodded, both accepting and acknowledging. Time and distance faded and it was as it had always been. Just them, always them, together. Kronos was constant where Methos ebbed and flowed. There hadn't been constancy in so very long.

"What am I?" Methos rasped.

"Mine."

For the first time in two thousand years they were whole.

_fin_

For edification: Hekau was a priest in Ancient Egypt. The title is often translated to mean magician, and has been connected to those who perform rituals and spells during the embalming process and funerals. Magic, called heka, was also the use of words to influence the world. Words were considered divine and had power.

Sau is far more ambiguous, and this is where I've taken creative license. Sa, the root of the word, can mean either protection or amulet. The general understanding is that the man, or woman, who carried this title created or empowered amulets for protection. Clearly I've taken a different angle, hence the creative license.


End file.
